The rickety metal box came to a stop with an ear-splitting shriek. Slowly, the elevator opened. With the retreating of the iron doors, a putrid stench wafted into the confines, welcoming the passenger to the eighth floor. It was unidentifiable to most, but for him, it was a familiar scent; rat and bygone biryani.

Not that Sam was the reason for these smells. God no. It had just been like this since before he moved in, and chances are it will be like this when he moves out. 'If I move out'. Sam thought, crushing that fleeting, and rare, moment of optimism.

Sam stepped out into the quaggy corridor. The humidity of the swampish hallway enveloped him, as if to punish himself for being hopeful, . A stark contrast to the chilly night outside. He footslogged over the soggy, rotting carpet. Under his feet, an ecosystem his mouldy carpeting birthed was flourishing. However, Sam couldn't care less. The society of rational and highly intelligent cockroaches was hardly his problem. Wether or not they did host a book club every Tuesday in a loose shoe opposite his door.

After some time, Sam reached his apartment. In front of him, a polished, fulvous wooden door with shadows of what used to be numbers emblazoned on its surface. 825.

Hands still in his pockets, Sam moved to bring out his keys before he looked closer and realised. It was already open. Nervously, Sam ran his thumb over the cuts of the key's blade. Once. Twice. Thrice? Three times? Ignoring numerical conventions, Sam sighed. He was being ridiculous. Forgetting to lock a door isn't anything new. Nothing to worry about. Sam pushed the door open and walked through, letting out a breath he he was embarrassed to have held. The apartment was empty.

The tension flooded out of his body. Turning on the lights, he dropped his scarf and oil-stained coat to the floor and made a beeline for the kettle. He filled it with water, closed the top, and placed it on the lit stovetop. Then he collapsed on his cushioned armchair in the corner of the living room. All things considered, Sam liked his studio apartment. Sure, it might be in a biohazard and, admittedly, it didn't help his chances of finding a girlfriend... but it had its own mouldy charm.

Sam sunk leisurely into the depths of the armchair and bathing in the warmth of the ceiling lights. The chewed up straw he called his hair was matted to his forehead - the fault of a mix of sweat and grease. Sam looked down. Past the dark sunken bags below his eyes, past his aquiline nose, to the tattered boots on his feet. They had been reduced to scraps after years of walking to and from work every day. He bent forward while seated and started to pull off the shoes, groaning in discomfort.

Suddenly there was a loud scream that let out through the apartment. Sam was unfazed, finished taking off his shoes, and cooly rose from the armchair. It was just the kettle, which Sam quickly took it off the stovetop and from it poured the water into his mug.

“Pour us a cup too, would you?” A sweet voice politely requested. There was another shrill shriek. This, however, was not the kettle. In fact, it came from the now startled Sam, trying to hide behind his mug of tea. Opposite him, behind the couch, were two figures. Locking eyes with these puzzling interlopers, Sam was filled to the brim with questions.Yet, all he could do was stand there, locked in silent dread.

“Don't look so scared. You’re the one who wanted Express Delivery.” The silence had been broken by the the one on the left. They were tall and elegant, their head coming almost up to the ceiling. The figure was wearing a black turtleneck with a grey waistcoat over the top, and a stopwatch hanging out one of the pockets. On the bottom half: tight black suit trousers, and muddy wellington boots. Their driving glove-covered hands rested crossed atop a dewy umbrella. It was hard to tell due to the thick woollen balaclava (and Sam's very distracting terror), but they seemed amused.

Their partner, however, was the opposite in almost every way: short, wide, and a wall of muscle. This ball of strength was clothed in one of the most beautiful ballgowns Sam had ever seen - not that he had seen many. The magic mint coloured material contained the bursting muscles effortlessly. The same went for the white, silken gloves that travelled all the way up the arm holding onto a little clasp purse. Covering the head was a matching lacy veil. Sam looked down and saw, peeking out the bottom of the ballgown, two bunny slippers, with their plastic eyes staring deep into his soul. Between the two intruders, no skin could be seen.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The pair were as strange-looking as they were uninvited.

Breaking Sam from his terrified stupor, they asked again “So are we getting some of that tea then?”. The voice tickled his ear like a soft breeze. However, that might have just been a soft breeze. The window was open. The very-much-not-guests took his silence as a tentative no.

The tall, elegant figure cleared their throat. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce ourselves. I am Kathy and this,” they gestured to the cannonball of a human, “is Rufus.”

“Hello” Sam responded weakly, accompanied with an even weaker smile. His first word in front of the two. Not an impressive feat but Sam was proud of himself.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” continued Kathy, “we are here to drop off the order you placed on Wednesday.” Sam, still very much confused, just stared questioningly at Kathy. Order? What order? The T-shirt? “We are very sorry for the delay but as you can tell we got a bit caught up in some bad weather.” Kathy gestured to her umbrella, which Sam only just realised was strange. It hadn’t rained in weeks. But, he just nodded, eager to finish up this farce and get them out of the apartment.

Kathy gestured to Rufus, clicking her fingers in his face. “Pass the sheets then, Roofie-poo.” Rufus nodded slowly and began to rifle through the clasp purse. After a few seconds, he pulled out a steel bucket. Sam’s eyes widened in shock. Rufus shook his head, somehow put the bucket back inside and continued to root through his purse. With a small grunt, he whipped the next item out of the fluffy clasp purse. A knuckleduster. It was decorated with flecks of dried blood. 'Ohnonononnonono' - Kathy burst out laughing. “No need to panic, honey. That was for our last customer. Now, Rufus, stop being silly and pass the bag to me. Rufus grunted and, with as much mirth as a brick, said:

“Sorry about that.” It was as if a train was passing by. His voice shook the room. As Sam tried to recover from the thunderclap of a voice, Kathy snatched the purse and reached inside. The purse swallowed her hand, her forearm, all the way up to her shoulder. Her face a look of complete concentration as she searched the seemingly infinite space inside the pouch.

“Aha!” And with that cry of triumph, she unsheathed a clipboard with a few papers and a pen attached, brandishing it proudly. “Got it!” An alarmed splutter emanated from Sam’s mouth, a weak attempt at hiding a squeal. A clipboard. A clipboard?! Paranoid thoughts raced in dizzying patterns through his head like a cat on cocaine as he tried to imagine all the ways he would be brutally assaulted with this implement. “Just for admin purposes, you are William Nott. Correct?” Sam jolted as his imaginations were suddenly interrupted by this voice. He hesitated before responding.

“No. I’m not.”

“Ah, you’re Noah Nott? The listed emergency contact?” She inquired.

“No.”

“...You’re neither Noah Nott, nor Will Nott?”

"Exactly.” Finally. She was getting it.

“So you’re not going to take the package?”

“I will not- ”

“Ah! So you are Will Nott. You had me going for a sec there. Thought I was in the wrong house!” She elbows her partner in the side, laughing. A clang reverberates from his ribs and through the room but it was ignored. “Just sign here, here, here, and... here. Please and thank you” She said all this as she grabbed his trembling hand and forced him to sign the form titled ‘The Post-Postal Package Pact’. Sam could have sworn he saw a line detailing his 'likely and untimely death', but the sheet was whisked away before he could look closer. Disconcerted and still semi-frozen Sam could only watch as the two stood up from the couch and grabbed their things.

“But-” Sam started to say.

“Yes, of course, we still need to give you your delivery. Rufus! Why didn’t you remind me?” The giant looked down listlessly as Kathy playfully scolded him. Then she reached into the purse one last time. Turning to Sam, she almost sang the words “Your welcome.” Before throwing a thick, heavy object directly at him.

The object was a flash of black and red as it shot towards Sam’s face. Hurtling towards him like a rock someone mistook for a frisbee, was an old, hardback book. As polite as the two visitors had been, blasting a publication of monstrous proportions towards his face was the last straw.

Alas, scolding the two had to wait as the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the title written in red.

This Is Going To Hurt

(A lot)